


Pines Family Reunion

by dorbee, Monocerotis



Series: The Blind Leading the Blind [6]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Amnesiac!Ford, Assault, Bodysharing, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M, Pain! Suffering Even!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:52:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29896584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorbee/pseuds/dorbee, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monocerotis/pseuds/Monocerotis
Summary: At long last, the newly established trio arrives at Pines Pawns. Mysteries and answers alike lurk behind its humble door...
Relationships: Bill Cipher & Fiddleford H. McGucket, Fiddleford H. McGucket/Ford Pines
Series: The Blind Leading the Blind [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2096208
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Pines Family Reunion

The late afternoon sun casts an orange glow upon Fiddleford’s vehicle as he pulls up to Pines Pawns. He peers over to his sleeping passenger—well, passengers—after parking in front of the door. Stanford and Friendly the Plaidypuggle have been snoring for hours, nestled together. They’re so comfortable. He wishes he could let them keep dreaming forever.

“Stanford?” Now that the engine’s off, the car’s dead quiet; his whisper sounds louder than a battle cry. He unbuckles his seatbelt and reaches over to stroke Ford’s cheek. “Wake up, dear, we made it.”

Ford lets out a soft “hm?” as Fiddleford’s fingers brush his face. They’re rough, thin, and spindly—sandpaper spider legs. Distinctive. He recognizes him before he even opens his eyes, and smiles. “Hello to you too, dear,” he murmurs, kissing his lover’s hand. He holds it for a long while, staring, oblivious to the immense worry hanging in the car. As he casts his gaze out the window, he furrows his brow and has to ask, “Where are we?” His last memory is a flat highway with sparse trees. Fiddleford said it was Indiana, and that he should keep sleeping. So he did.

Fiddleford loses a small hope he didn’t know he had—that Ford would recognize his family home. Tender kisses do nothing to soften the blow. “It’s… your folks’ place. They—they live upstairs.” He points to two second-story windows, one covered by neon lights.

Ford follows Fiddleford’s finger. The pawnshop bears his surname, but it’s unfamiliar. He’s willing to believe it’s the right place—he recalls this was the reason for their road trip. To visit his family.

“Reckon your mother’s seen us get here. She said she’d be watchin’ like a hawk.” Fiddleford pulls his keys from the ignition and stuffs them in his pocket.

“Yes, no time to waste!” Ford steps out of the car with Friendly, who wiggles fatly and plops.

Fiddleford hesitates—he hadn’t considered the fact that Friendly and Ford are a package deal. With a sigh, he accepts his fate, kicking his door shut behind him and walking to Ford’s side. “Now, remember. You get confused, clam up—let me cover for ya, alright?” He’s brimming with false confidence as he pats his lover between the shoulders. “I got your back.”

Ford blushes at Fiddleford’s reassuring touch, which assuages the few nerves he had. He holds Friendly to his chest. “You’ve got my back,” he repeats with a nod. He approaches the door preparing to knock when—

“Now there’s my handsome young man!” Caryn swings the door open and pulls him into a hug that challenges Burmese pythons. “Oh, Stanford, sweetie, it’s been too long!” She lets up before his asthma can return with a vengeance, snatching his face instead. Acrylic nails pierce his cheeks. “You doin’ alright out there, across the country? We miss ya every day, but we’re proud, too. You know that, right?”

Fiddleford anticipates disaster.

_ This woman cannot stop talking! _ Ford hasn’t a moment to scan through his memories for her face before she expects a response from him. He eases her sharp nails from his skin, smiling and pulling her into a hug. This gesture is familiar. She smells, feels familiar, and once he pulls away, he’d even say she looks familiar. He clears his throat.

“Oh, I’ve missed you, M—” he cuts himself off and hazards a guess. “Mother!” Good shot. He glances at his partner and pushes him forward. “This is Fiddleford, he’s my friend. Say hi.” He strokes Friendly’s head. Precious comfort in this troubled time.

Stanford hiccuping as he addresses her is strange, but Caryn writes it off as just that—a hiccup. Soon enough, a stranger is standing where her son once was. “You’re the gentleman who called me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he nods, wishing he had a hat to tip or doff. “Fiddleford Hadron McGucket. It’s a pleasure to meet you in person.” Before he can offer a hand for Caryn to shake, she reaches out and pinches  _ his _ cheeks.

“Aren’t you a darling! I’m sure you’ve been a wonderful ‘assistant’ to my son.” Fiddleford flushes bright pink, unable to manage a meaningful response. With her knowing smile, Caryn turns to Stanford, who’s never been so attached to a pet. “Now, who’s this friend?” Curious, she bends her knees slightly and inspects the odd creature.

Ford smiles, holding the plaidypus up to her. He plops. “This is Friendly! He wandered into our house and we, uh, kept him. He’s a regular part of the family!” He doesn’t recognize his adoption of Fiddleford’s vernacular, or the implications he’s made about their living arrangements. “If you want to pet him, he likes rubs on his head, his back, his belly—well, everywhere!”

The critter is unlike any Caryn’s seen or heard. She’s nonetheless charmed by his amicable nature. “Hi there, Friendly!” Patting him everywhere, she delights in the symphony of plops. “Do you keep my boy company while he works himself to death? He needs it, yes he does.”

Being reminded of Stanford’s thesis is the last thing Fiddleford needs—a violent shiver rips through him. When Caryn notices, he passes her a sheepish grin. “Mind if we come in?”

“Oh, please! Enjoy yourselves.” She motions for them to enter.

The treasures of the pawnshop glitter like fool’s gold. While Ford gawks, he doesn’t notice heavy footsteps coming closer.

“Stanford.”

Ford’s eyes snap to the man in front of him. He’s scarcely three feet away, staring through his soul. They share a nose, but not a personality.

There’s no introduction. Only the stare.

He steps back and laughs. “Yes, that’s my name.” His pupils dart to Fiddleford:  _ help, tag me out, I can’t handle this guy. _

Oh no. No no no—the word repeats in Fiddleford’s skull, drowning out his thoughts until Ford’s pleading eyes snap him out of it. “St-Stanford, do you need me to hold Friendly so you can—” he gulps, praying it’s inaudible, “—shake y-your father’s hand?”

Caryn feels for Fiddleford, but she’s more concerned with Stanford’s behavior. She closes the door and stands behind the boys, silent for now.

Ford tries to release Friendly, but the mere thought of separation is painful. He instead holds him in one arm and approaches his... “father” with his free hand outstretched. “G-good to see you. Dad.”

Filbrick is silent before reaching out and giving Ford a firm handshake. “That’s new.”

“What’s new?”

“Since when did you call me Dad?”

Ford blushes, hugging Friendly with both arms once more. “Since now, I suppose. Nothing wrong with something new! Right?”

Filbrick pauses a long time. “Nothing’s wrong with new things except that  _ you _ hate them. So I’ll ask you again.” He doesn’t move a muscle, but his intimidating presence grows. “Why the change?”

Ford’s silent, and when his voice comes, it’s small. “I-I don’t know.”

“Honey, are you feeling alright?” Caryn asks, touching his shoulder.

“It’s fine!” Fiddleford’s voice cracks as he interjects. He tries and fails to take a deep breath before he continues. “Real lonesome out in the cabin, he—he’s sentimental!” Now  _ he _ looks to  _ Ford _ for backup. “Right, Stanford? You missed him, that’s it!”

Ford looks into his mother’s eyes, his heart pounding. Her comforting expression falls pitifully short. He just doesn’t know her. She’s nice enough, but he has to fake it—he can’t even  _ pretend  _ to be his father’s son. Fiddleford vamping for him only makes things worse. He shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he says, meeting Filbrick’s eyes with agony. “I didn’t mean—want—”

Filbrick is unimpressed. “Quit bein’ a sissy and come upstairs, your mother made lunch.” He leaves as if nothing’s gone wrong.

Ford can’t stand upright. He doesn’t need a concussion, so Fiddleford holds him steady. Left gaping and staring with horror, Caryn offers her support on the other side. She also breaks the unpleasant silence. “What’s going on?” she whispers, every word a gunshot. “There’s more to this than Stanley.”

“Don’t say his—” Fiddleford’s warning comes too late. He sees Ford’s pupils contract as he slams a hand to his head, crying out in pain.

This time it’s a hundred ice picks slamming into his brain at once. He hasn’t thought of Stanley in ages. First, there’s a wave of static, the unknown. The weight of everything that’s missing. Then, the tragedy of what little he _does_ know. His lip quivers, tears in his eyes. “This is a _normal family visitation_. I will be the fucking _adult_ _I am_. _You two_ won’t _stop_ me.” He tries to direct his anger at himself. _Don’t cry, you’re not weak, there’s no need to coddle you._

Wrenching himself from their grasp, he stomps upstairs into his small childhood home. It’s a blast from the past, corner to corner. He shudders, the peeling wallpaper and sparse decor evoking vivid memories. It’s an efficient household—frugal, too.

“Are you just gonna stand there?”

Ford flinches at his father’s voice. He’s sitting at the table, hands clasped. As before, he can’t get a read on him. He gulps and shakes his head. “No, I was just... nostalgic.” Cautiously, he walks up and takes his seat closer to the other end. It feels safer with a one-chair distance.

Downstairs, Ma Pines invokes every ounce of matriarchal authority she has as she faces her son’s “assistant.” “I need the truth right now. What made ya ask after Stanley to begin with? No more lies with me, mister, you are  _ much _ worse at it than I am.”

Fiddleford gnaws at his fingernails, cowering as if before God herself. “Ya don’t want the truth.”

“Bullshit! I need to know what happened to my son!” It takes a lifetime of self-restraint not to raise her voice. Fiddleford buckles under the pressure.

“Fine! He lost his memory in a, a lab accident—”

“Memory? Lost? What!?” Caryn clutches the sides of her head.

“—I’ve been tryin’ to fix him, Mrs. Pines, I’m tryin’!” Fiddleford’s tears spill out like hot soup leaking from a poorly sealed pot.

“To fix hi—”

_ “Is there a problem?” _

They turn to the stairs.

Filbrick looms over them, arms crossed. In the silence that follows, Stanford peeks over his shoulder. “I said, is there a _ problem? _ ” Even from downstairs, you can see him tensing with anger.

Try as Caryn might to summon her Stepford smile, it doesn’t appear. To her right, Fiddleford wipes his eyes, but red splotches cover his face. “Sorry, we kept you waitin’, dear.” Caryn pulls Fiddleford along, knowing they’re lambs headed for the slaughter.

“Y-yes, so, so sorry, Mr. Pines,” Fiddleford stammers, as if that’ll erase his runny nose and trembling lips.

Filbrick says nothing at first. He lets them walk up, past him and Stanford, into the dining room.

“I can tell when you’re lying,  _ Caryn. _ You too, buddy.”

The malice with which Filbrick invokes her name is stomach-turning. Some distant part of Ford’s mind recognizes imminent danger, and he pushes past his father, stopping halfway between him and his mother. His eyes dart between them and Fiddleford. “Wait, let’s—we need—”

“I’m sorry!” Fiddleford wails. “It’s, it’s my fault that this, that he—”

“Filbrick, stop it! God _ damn _ you, we lost one son, I can’t let you drive Stanford away, too!” Caryn’s volume outmatches anyone’s, shrill, seething, eardrum-melting. Everyone needs time to recover. Only a second, though.

“What the hell!?” The display of insolence by all parties astounds Filbrick. “I leave for one minute and everyone’s blubbering and screaming! Caryn, Ford, what’s-your-name, stop fucking around and tell me what you’re hiding, right now!”

Ford’s left utterly adrift. “Where... where do we start?”

Caryn shuts up, but she’s not sure how much longer she can keep doing that. Fiddleford takes the initiative—though he’s not sure how much longer he can keep doing that, either. “I’ll say it again. It’s my fault.” He steps forward, eyes trained on the carpet. “Things went… wrong, in the lab, and his memory got… wiped clean.”

“I still don’t understand what the hell you mean by ‘trying to fix him,’” Caryn snaps.

“We’re—he, you—I’m doin’ my best to teach him who he used to be.” Squeezing his arms, Fiddleford rocks back and forth on his feet.

“Teach him who he used to be? What, you’re gonna train my son like a fucking dog? What were you two  _ doing _ that he ended up—” he faces Ford, who backs away. “Stanford, what’s my name?”

Ford takes a few deep breaths before wincing. “Mom’s name is Caryn.”

“I just said Ma’s name, I’m asking you for  _ my _ name. It’s your middle name, I know you know this.”

He’s ashamed. “I… don’t. I’m sorry, I am, but I don’t know.”

Filbrick knows Ford well enough to understand he means what he says. His sights shift to Fiddleford. “You’re a son of a bitch, you know that?” He gets in his face. “How long were you gonna keep up this lie? You got more you’re hiding? What kind of assistant are you anyway?”

Fiddleford holds up his hands and sobs, staggering away from Filbrick, heart beating a path through his ribcage. “I-I—p-p-please—”

“Filbrick, get away from him!” Unable and unwilling to move her husband, Caryn drags Fiddleford out of harm’s way. “Nothin’ good ever comes from you layin’ your hands on someone, leave him be!”

“We w-wanted to ask you about Stanley.” Fiddleford knows this will make things worse, but it’ll also redirect Filbrick’s ire.

Filbrick offers a hint of a “this fuckin’ guy” smile as he looks to Stanford. “Since when do you give a shit about Stanley?”

That gets right to Ford’s core, and he straightens up, giving his father a stern look. “Since the moment I remembered him. He’s my twin brother, and it’s a crime we’ve been apart for so long.”

Ford’s stern look is no match for Filbrick’s. “Keep that up and you’ll get thrown on your ass too.”

“...What?”

Filbrick’s annoyed. “I said keep that up and I’ll kick you out the door like I did your lousy brother. You askin’ after him? I say good riddance. You’re better off on your own.”

Ford stumbles back from the shock of the words. He can see it, hear it, smell it even. His rage. Bittersweet satisfaction, seeing his twin cast out with only a duffel bag, on a fruitless journey from which he’d never return. Ford’s shaking as he sets Friendly on the floor, who scurries behind Fiddleford. He pockets his glasses, clears his throat, and speaks.

“You... are a goddamn MURDERER!” he bellows, lunging and tackling his father with great ease. He’s stronger than him, but the adrenaline helps. He lays countless blows into Filbrick’s thick, hateful skull. “YOU’RE A MONSTER! A DEMON! YOU’RE EVIL INCARNATE! YOU TOOK MY PAIN AND MADE IT A WEAPON TO KILL MY BEST FRIEND! HOW COULD YOU? HOW COULD YOU TAKE YOUR CHILD AND TREAT HIM WORSE THAN TRASH? WHAT’S FUCKING WRONG WITH YOU!?” Tears stream down his cheeks. He wants to give this bastard every lick he’s earned in his long, miserable existence.

Caryn and Fiddleford play wax museum for far too long before attempting to wrest Ford’s arms from Filbrick. They’re wildly unsuccessful. She lands square on her ass, and he nearly tramples Friendly as he’s thrown back.

“STANFORD!” Filbrick may well be a murderer, as far as Caryn knows, but she refuses to allow Ford to become one, too. She secures her arms around her son’s chest. “Stop, stop, I’m beggin’ ya!”

Incapable of speech, Fiddleford clutches Stanford’s stomach. With their joint strength, they pry Ford off of his father. By the time they manage that, Filbrick is black-eyed, bruised, and bleeding. Ford has shattered his sunglasses and his nose. The only things bloodier than his head are Ford’s knuckles.

“—PIECE OF SHIT MOTHERFUCKER—” Ford curses in mystery languages between sobs. Filbrick stares up at him. Despite everything, he’s… impressed.

“Never thought you’d beat your old man in a fight,” he says, shaking his head. “Listen to me Stanford, your brother’s not dead. Dead to me, but he’s out there failing to his heart’s content. Sent me a postcard three weeks ago from Ypsilanti. It’s shredded, but you can find him.” He grits his teeth, revealing a gap where one’s been knocked out. “Now you can kindly leave my home for good. Don’t call, don’t write.”

Ford is silent: surprised, but mostly disappointed in himself. He didn’t expect their reunion to be so brief and so violent. His shoulders drop as he turns to his mother and pulls her into a tight hug. His head sinks into her shoulder and he rocks forward and back on his heels. Friendly approaches him and hugs his leg.

Caryn’s number one priority is being there for her kid. She runs her fingers through Ford’s hair. Amnesia or no, he’s evidently still a fan of her fingernails against his scalp. “It’s alright, honey... Mama’s here.” Wiping away his tears, she kisses the top of his head. When his breathing regulates, she faces the man she used to love, bereft of compassion. “You are a  _ worthless _ ,  _ miserable _ excuse for a father! Stanford’s right, and if you never see him again—” She digs her heel into Filbrick’s gut. He yelps. “Then you’ll never see me again!” She steps over him and downstairs. Fiddleford scoops up Friendly, who plops with protest, and hobbles after her.

Ford’s still standing there after his mother and Fiddleford have walked out. He stares at his father: confused, lost. Weak.

He turns his back and walks away.

Outside, Fiddleford and Caryn are getting into the car. Ford ducks into the back seat and retrieves Friendly. “Well, that was horrible, but we’ve nearly found Stanley! I suppose our next stop is Michigan.” He pets Friendly’s head and looks between them.

Not yet buckled in, Caryn shakes her head. “Our next stop is somewhere with a bed, far away! We can plan the Michigan trip once we get some shut-eye.” It’s hardly twilight out, but her instincts tell her to secure shelter sooner than later.

“…Yes.” Fiddleford nods, delayed. He puts his hands at 10 and 2 out of muscle memory and nothing else. “Shut... eye...” That gives him the bright idea to shut his eyes. Their car horn blares through the quiet New Jersey evening as his head slams into the steering wheel.

Ford regrets his words and deeds. “Holy Moses, Fiddleford!” he gasps, pulling him up by his shoulders and scrambling to recline the driver’s seat. He’s long gone unconscious.

“Oh, poor thing!” Caryn rubs his cheeks with her thumbs. “Hey sweetheart, it’s okay. We’re outta there, no one’s fighting anymore. You’re Fiddleford Hadron McGucket and it’s safe, right?” She looks to Ford, who nods.

“Very safe.” He wraps his arms around Fiddleford. “Secure. We’ll be okay. I’m sorry for this, you can rest. Please, rest. You never rest enough.”

Caryn pulls a hand away to dig through her purse. Her driver’s license expired four years ago, but her street smarts didn’t. She’ll be able to commandeer the vehicle if need be. Keeping that in mind, she returns to stroking Fiddleford’s face and cooing.

_ EARTH TO FIDDLEFORD! _

Fiddleford only hears a light buzz.

_ COME ON, DON’T YOU IGNORE ME! THEY NEED SPEECH, A SIGN OF LIFE! _

He grimaces.

_ THAT’S NOT A REASSURING SIGN OF LIFE!!! _

His mouth attempts to form the words “shut up,” but only a groan comes out.

_ IT MAY BREAK HOUSE RULES, BUT THESE CHUCKLEFUCKS’LL CALL AN AMBULANCE IF I DON’T PROVE YOU AREN’T DYING. SO CAN I TAKE CONTROL OF THE BODY? JUST THIS ONCE? PRETTY PLEASE? _

There’s no reply.

… _ Y-YOU CAN THANK ME LATER! _

Slipping inside the motor cortex, Bill opens one of his eyes, then the other. “Rest sounds good,” he whimpers, in Fiddleford’s voice.

Caryn and Ford shoot each other knowing looks. “Ya need help to get him back there?” she asks.

“No, I can handle this.” Ford opens the driver’s side door and picks Fiddleford up bridal style, laying him in the backseat. He sits beside him, letting his head rest in his lap. Friendly curls up on Fiddleford’s chest and soon begins snoozing.

Caryn, meanwhile, climbs into the driver’s seat. “Sure hope he has insurance,” she says with a laugh. She reaches back and makes a grabby motion. “Hand me his keys, honey.” Ford searches Fiddleford’s pockets, finding a sparse keyring. He hands it to Caryn, who smiles and starts the engine. She adjusts the rear-view to look at Ford, and Fiddleford, and the stupid animal. “Hey, it can’t get worse, right?”

Ford smiles and nods.

They hit the gas.

**Author's Note:**

> DQRWKHU SRLQW RI QR UHWXUQ  
> D PXFK GHVHUYHG EULGJH WR EXUQ  
> BHW LQ LWV ZDNH, QHZ RQHV VWDQG WDOO—  
> ‘OHDVW, LI L GLGQ’W GURS WKH EDOO...


End file.
